Far away, at the foot of the hills a crofter’s cow lowed lazily, calling forth a summons to be taken in and relieved of its burden of milk.  The sheep came nearer to the “bughts,” and the lambs burrowed for nourishment, with tails wagging, as they drew their sustenance, prodding and punching the patient mothers in the operation of feeding.  Robert, noting all, with leisured enjoyment strolled lazily into the little copse, and lay down beneath the cool, grateful shelter of the trees.

Drugged by the sweetness and the solitude, he fell asleep, and the sun was low on the horizon when he awoke, the whole copse ringing with the evening songs of merle and mavis, and other less musical birds, and, as he looked down the glade, he saw, out on the moorland path, coming straight for the grove, the form of Mysie—­the form of which he had dreamed, and for which he had longed so much.

The hot blood mounted to his face and raced through his frame, while his heart thumped at the thought that now, in the quietness of the dell, he would meet her and speak to her.  He would speak calmly, and not frighten her, as he had done on that former occasion; and he braced himself to meet her.

Impatiently he waited, and then, as he saw her about to enter the grove, he rose as unconcernedly as he could, trying hard to assume the air of one who had met her by accident, and stepped on to the path when Mysie was within ten yards or so of him.

The color left her face, and her limbs felt weak beneath her, as she recognized him, and he was quick to note the change in her whole appearance.

She was paler, he thought, and thinner, and the bloom of a few weeks ago was gone.  Her eyes were listless, and the soft, shy look had been replaced by an averted shame-stricken one.  She was plainly flurried by the meeting, and looking about trying to find if there were not, even yet, a way of evading it.

“It’s a fine nicht, Mysie,” he began, stammering and halting before her, “though I think it is gaun to work to rain.”

“Ay,” she responded hurriedly, her agitation growing, as she was forced to halt before him.

“I’ve come oot on the muir a wheen o’ nichts noo, to try an’ meet you,” he began, getting into the business right away, “an’ I had begun to think you had stopped comin’ owre.”

But Mysie answered never a word.  Her face grew paler, and her agitation became more evident.

“Mysie,” he began, now fully braced for the important matter in view, “I want you to marry me.  I want you to be my wife.  You’ve kenned me a’ my life.  We gaed to the school together, and we gaed to work together, an’ I hae aye looked on you as my lass.  I canna keep it ony langer noo.  I hae wanted to tell you a lang time aboot it, an’ to ask you to be my wife.  My place at hame is easier noo.  My mother has the rest o’ the family comin’ on to take my place, and her battle is gey weel owre, an’ I can see prospects o’ settin’ up a hoose o’ my ain, if you’ll agree to share it with me.  I haven’t muckle to offer you, but I think you’ll ken by this time that I’ll be guid to you.  Mysie, I want you.  Will you come?”